So David carried with him the calendars and slippers, dressing-gowns and
bed-socks which were at once the tangible evidence of their friendliness
and Lucy's despair.

Watching him, Dick was certain nothing further had come to threaten his
recovery. Dick carefully inspected the mail, but no suspicious letter
had arrived, and as the days went on David's peace seemed finally
re-established. He made no more references to Johns Hopkins, slept like
a child, and railed almost pettishly at his restricted diet.

"When we get away from Dick, Lucy," he would say, "we'll have beef
again, and roast pork and sausage."

Lucy would smile absently and shake her head.

"You'll stick to your diet, David," she would say. "David, it's the
strangest thing about your winter underwear. I'm sure you had five
suits, and now there are only three."

Or it was socks she missed, or night-clothing. And David, inwardly
chuckling, would wonder with her, knowing all the while that they had
clothed some needy body.

On the night before the departure David went out for his first short
walk alone, and brought Elizabeth back with him.

"I found a rose walking up the street, Lucy," he bellowed up the stairs,
"and I brought it home for the dinner table."

Lucy came down, flushed from her final effort over the trunks, but
gently hospitable.

"It's fish night, Elizabeth," she said. "You know Minnie's a Catholic,
so we always have fish on Friday. I hope you eat it." She put her hand
on Elizabeth's arm and gently patted it, and thus was Elizabeth taken
into the old brick house as one of its own.